


The Silver Bullet Job

by Idday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Leverage Fusion, Con Artists, F/M, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Thief AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3470462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been a year since the Argents stole everything from him—they took his job, they took his reputation, but most importantly, they took his family.</p>
<p>Derek Hale likes to think of himself as an honest man. He’s done the right thing, all his life. And over the past twelve months, he’s explored every opportunity afforded to him by the legal system, and he’s been told time and time again that there is simply nothing to be done.</p>
<p>After a year of doing things the right way, Derek knows the truth.</p>
<p>If he wants reparations, if he wants revenge, if he wants justice… He’s going to have to steal it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So an unfinished Leverage inspired AU that popped up out of nowhere... If you've never seen Leverage, it's basically well meaning, occasionally goofy, always slick, super-smart con men shenanigans, so this should be fun.
> 
> Rating/tags subject to change, and warnings at the beginning of each chapter if necessary... but it doesn't look like this is going to get too nasty. Canon level violence mentioned in this chapter and probably throughout (canon for both Leverage and Teen Wolf).
> 
> As of now I really have no idea how long this is going to get or when updates will be... when I do figure out a schedule, I'll let you know! If it's comforting to know that I have the whole thing plotted out, then know that.
> 
> Normal disclaimer: I don't own anything from Teen Wolf or Leverage and I'm definitely not making any money off of any of this. 
> 
> Also, I don't think I've personally had any problems with it... but I've seen it with a number of other authors recently, so just in case:
> 
> Please do not post parts or the entirety of this work or any other of my pieces of writing on alternative third party sites. Reviews or recommendations are not considered to be the same thing, and are allowed (and I always love to know when/if these latter things do happen).
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are welcomed and adored. Hopefully shouldn't be too long before the next update!
> 
> Enjoy!

“I could kill her for you, Derek.”

Derek sighs into his phone, and takes another swig of coffee. Irish. It’s been a rough day. A rough year, actually.

“I don’t want her dead, Peter. I want her suffering.”

Peter gives a pleased chuckle. It comes through the line tinny and too loud, but if he were here, his eyes would be crinkling at the corner, and he would order a couple of shots for the two of them. He would be proud of Derek.

“My thoughts exactly. Not that I don’t have a very talented man who could make the job quick, easy… not painless, of course. That would be much too good for her. But it wouldn’t implicate either of us. Certainly not you. And me… I’ve been accused of worse.”

“No,” Derek says again. A waitress comes by, and holds up a pot of fresh coffee questioningly. Derek waves her away, and drinks the rest of what’s in his flask straight as soon as she turns her back. “No, Peter. I want more than a highly televised tragedy. I want her to suffer. I want to take everything from her. I want her to know that it was me who did it, and why. Can you help me with that?”

“Maybe if I knew what you were after, exactly.” There’s scuffling on the other end of the phone. Raised voices. A gunshot. “I’m not sure I know what you want from me?” Peter sounds as unruffled as always.

“I can call back later, if you’re busy,” Derek remarks. Not that hearing gunshots or raised voices is _unusual_ when calling his uncle.

“You know my motto, Derek. Family comes first. Always. Especially after… well. Since there’s so few of us, now.”

Derek clenches his jaw. A year later, and nothing is easier.

But he’s ready. He called his uncle today, because he’s finally ready.

Kate Argent took everything from him. She took his family, his job, his reputation. She left nothing behind but a well of grief and guilt, the depths of which Derek will never plumb. Gave nothing for her trouble, not an apology, not an explanation, certainly not the insurance money.

Derek is a decent man. He’s explored every opportunity afforded him by the legal system, and been told over and over again that there was simply nothing to be done.

_A tragic accident. A misguided attempt at insurance fraud. Simply in the wrong place at the wrong time._

The stories change. The answer never does.

After a year of doing things the right way, Derek knows the truth.

If he wants reparations, if he wants revenge, if he wants _justice…_ He’s going to have to steal it.

And that’s what he tells his uncle. Who chuckles richly again, and says, “I’ll send you some names, some phone numbers. I’m sure they won’t disappoint. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a certain cartel leader to… meet with.” Derek wonders how long it will be before the media outlets report another mysterious death. A heart attack, too young, perhaps. A very long walk off a very short pier by a rather unfortunately _very_ drunk man.

“Call anytime,” Peter says.

…

Diners at the Café la Lune notice the impeccably dressed red-headed woman, seated alone at an outside table, typing rapidly on a sleek laptop and sipping occasionally at an espresso.

Some of the women notice, rather jealously, the expensive heels on her demurely crossed feet, the designer jacket from _next season_ slung rather carelessly along the back of her chair.

The men notice her full, pink lips, the curls of her shiny hair, the green eyes narrowed in concentration. Some try, in vain, to catch those eyes, but her focus is single minded on the computer in front of her.

Every person on the block seems to notice when the tall, handsome man sits in the empty chair across from her. Except for the woman herself.

None of them notice the Bank across the street, or the smirk on those glossy lips when the transfer is completed and she finally snaps her laptop shut.

“I’m assuming that you’re the reason that I was told in no uncertain terms to be here alone precisely five minutes ago?  You’re late, by the way.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” The man says, and nods to the innocuous looking laptop. “How long did it take you to hack into that bank? And how much money did you take, for the trouble?” He smiles at her, and dimples appear beneath his stubble, but the smile rings false.

The beautiful woman purses her lips. “Maybe you’re not completely useless. Nobody else noticed. The bank won’t, not until tomorrow. And I’m extremely good at blending in.” She nods around to the other diners. It’s a nice part of town, and the other women are carrying designer handbags and wearing grandmother’s pearls. They all look like slightly frumpier versions of the redhead.

“I would expect no less from you, Lydia.”

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Lydia says coolly. “Would you care to explain who you are and just precisely why the head of the Irish mob called in his one and _only_ favor with me to get me to meet you here?”

“Derek Hale,” the man says, and extends a hand for her to shake.

But Lydia pushes back her chair instead of taking it, stands angrily. “No. I worked with Peter Hale once, and got more than enough trouble for it. How do you think he ended up with the favor that landed me here today? There is no way that I’m working with another mobster. What are you, a cousin?”

Derek looks unperturbed by her outburst. “A nephew,” he says, and flags down a waitress, “On his sister’s side. And if you’ve done the research—which I know you have—you’ll know that nobody on that side of the family is remotely involved in Peter’s business. And I believe that he prefers his little group to be called… alternate enforcement services? ‘The Mob’ sounds so threatening.”

Lydia sits again, warily, smoothing her skirt. “Talia’s son?” She asks. “Didn’t she—”

“Yes,” Derek interrupts. “And that’s why I’m here. To do what I want to do, I need the best hacker in the world.”

“I really prefer computer expert,” Lydia says, appeased. She orders a glass of champagne from the waitress. “You’ve come to the right place, then.”

Derek smiles again. It seems real, this time.

She makes him pay for her champagne.

…

Lydia Martin: Hacker.

Gifted her first computer by Daddy when she was eight, and promptly hacked into her own trust fund to invest it more soundly.

Invented her own code in middle school when her post-grad level Computer Science class became boring.

Robbed her first bank—virtually—at the tender young age of seventeen, because the Chanel line was _fabulous_ that year.

Somebody has to pay for the pumps that adorned those tiny feet, after all, and Lydia doesn’t take money from Daddy anymore, just on principle.

Law school was always a little _ordinary_ for someone like Lydia Martin.

…

The young man who stumbles off the plane looks exhausted and travel weary—not unusual after a twelve hour flight from Tel Aviv. He’s wearing a clean shirt and fresh jeans, but he limps a bit on his right leg.

He carefully avoids the eye of the flight attendant who has been flirting with him for those twelve hours—his soft brown eyes and charmingly uneven jaw give him a certain appeal, but he’s clearly intent on avoiding her interest.

Instead, he waves goodbye at the gate to the little boy across the aisle he’d spent the whole flight playing toy soldiers with, and shoulders a duffle bag. It’s oddly shaped, and heavier than it looks.

He’s past baggage claim when he sees a man holding a sign with his name on it. The man blends in well with a sea of family members and other drivers with signs like his, but he’s wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket and something about him makes the passenger clench his free hand into a fist.

“I usually take a taxi,” He says warily, as he approaches the man with the sign.

“Peter Hale sent me,” the man says.

“So this is the favor he’s calling in?” He doesn’t relax at all. He drops the duffle bag and squares his stance.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for a week, Scott.” The man in the leather jacket says. “I take it that you’re one of Peter’s… what’s the politically correct way of saying this… Enforcers? Wetwork artists?”

“No,” Scott grits out. He doesn’t relax.

“I didn’t get many details from him,” the man says apologetically, “Only that you’re the best at what you do. Whether that’s, ah, target removal? That’s your business.”

“That’s not… entirely what my job description is,” Scott admits grudgingly.

“Perhaps we can discuss it in more detail in the car. Derek Hale,” the man reaches for the duffle, but Scott snatches it up before he can reach it. Scott opens his mouth, and Derek adds quickly, “I’m not in the same business as my uncle.”

“But you do need his people,” Scott says, heading for the exit.

“I need you to do what you do best,” Derek tells him. “Whatever that may be.”

“I’m a retrieval specialist,” Scott says.

Derek smirks.

…

Scott McCall: Hitter.

Tired of being bullied for his inherent sweetness and near-constant asthma attacks in high school, decided to take a gap year in Russia.

Returned with a set of skills that won’t earn him a college degree.

Took down an armed Chinese gang with a toothpick and bar stool and made last call.

Used a teddy bear to remove a corrupt Eastern European dictator from a small but powerful country.

Scott McCall doesn’t stand for bullying anymore.

…

The guards at Whitman’s Fine Jewelry, est. 1894, are paid to notice.

They notice every customer who walks through the door—age, build, clothing, bags. They notice the ones who lean on the glass and look a little too closely, the ones who can’t afford to buy the merchandise, the ones who buy it just because they _can_.

But after the woman leaves the shop on Friday afternoon, not one guard in the place could describe her. She was dark haired, slight, but ordinary. Very pretty, but not wearing memorable clothing or striking makeup. Her clothes were expensive, but not extravagant. Not flighty enough to be a bored society miss, too young to be an investor. A designer purse, but not one big enough to raise eyebrows.

She browsed around the shop for seven minutes. She walked at a normal pace, and gazed into every case, perfunctorily. She asked to see three pieces up close—different collections, different designs—and hummed non-committedly at everything she saw.

She left without buying a single thing.

And the guards would have never thought of her again. The security tapes which never showed her face—only the back of her head and a long finger, pointing at the pieces she examined up close—would probably have never been re-watched.

But the guards are questioned about every customer in the store that Friday afternoon. Because the next day, the crown jewel of the collection—quite literally, a crown made especially for Queen Victoria—goes missing.

No one suspects the girl except for the man that falls into step with her the next morning, the Crown already safely ferretted away.

“That was a good job you did,” he tells her, “The guards will never suspect a thing. And that crown? Lovely. Priceless.”

The girl stops in her tracks.

“Don’t worry, I’m not police,” The man tells her. “Peter Hale probably told you about me.”

When she smiles, dimples appear in both cheeks.

“So you’re this favor I’ve heard so much about. What can I do for you, Mr…?”

The man ignores her implied question. “I need your special set of skills, Allison. What would you call it, artifact acquisition? Permanent borrowing of international treasures?”

“I’m a thief,” She says, simply, and not without a certain element of pride.

“I’m Derek Hale,” the man tells her. “So nice to finally meet you, face to face.”

…

Allison de Plata: Thief.

Exploded onto the international crime scene at eighteen when she strolled out of the Louvre with a Van Gough tucked under her arm.

Liberated the Brits of one particularly shiny set of crown jewels.

Broke into the single most secure vault in the private sector and left with everything but a very polite note detailing her top ten recommendations to improve security.

Doesn’t see the point in denying the single thing that she’s very good at: she takes what she wants.

And she always gets away.

…

“Not that this isn’t… Charming,” Lydia says with a sniff, eying the mug of tea Derek presents her with dubiously, and glancing at the rest of the generic—if expensive—hotel room, “But could you tell us why exactly you’ve brought us all here? And sometime before next week, because I have a rather important _engagement_ in Rome soon.” She smirks at Allison and wiggles a bare left hand. “Literally.”

“She’s right,” Allison says, after rolling her eyes, “This is a one-time deal, okay? I work alone. Always have, always will. The sooner I get this done? The sooner I get myself to Luxembourg for the… nevermind.”

“You’re here,” Derek tells them quietly, conscious of Scott’s crossed arms and planted feet as he stands at the exit, “As I’ve told you all before, to do what you do best. I need something, and I want you to help me get it.”

“You want us to help you steal it,” Allison corrects.

“What would you need with us?” Scott asks suddenly, “An ex-insurance investigator? You’ve never been on this side before. I’m actually pretty sure that you’ve chased me before.”

Both girls nod. “The closest I’ve ever come to being caught,” Allison mutters.

“Istanbul,” Lydia murmurs.

“Things have changed,” Derek interrupts, “I need something that I can’t get legally. And I’ve tried.”

“You must be desperate if you’re willing to sully your pretty white hat by consorting with the likes of us,” Lydia says, and Derek nods in agreement.

“So what is it,” Allison asks him. “Money? Jewels? A royal for ransom?”

Lydia wrinkles her forehead. “I am _not_ kidnapping anybody,” she says, “I’d take my chances with Peter Hale.”

“Nothing like that,” Derek assures her. “It’s a bit of a special job.”

“Art?”Allison asks, “Ancient artifacts? Ooh, weaponry?”

“No,” Derek says. “Revenge.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK!! I wrote this up in a jiffy, so please excuse errors, etc. because it's unbetaed and I just wanted to publish while I was all excited! This one is important, but also pretty expository and light on the action. Sorry this took almost a year--more coming soon!

“A year ago,” Derek starts, ignoring Lydia’s eyeroll, “I was away in Paris. A business trip. The night of September 15th, a fire broke out at my family home. Ten people died. My parents, my younger sister, my grandmother, two aunts, an uncle, and three of my younger cousins. The youngest was five.”

Scott shifts uncomfortably.

“We know about the fire,” Lydia says crisply, though she won’t meet Derek’s eyes, “There was an arson investigation, but they never found who did it. I always assumed it was accidental.”

“It was intentional,” Derek snaps. “Somebody set that fire and let ten people burn. And that’s who we’re taking down.”

He clicks his mouse, and a picture of a pretty woman fills his TV screen. It’s a face that he once swore he would never tire of looking at.

Allison clenches her jaw, and looks away. “Look, Derek, we’re sorry about your family. But you can’t just go around accusing people of mur—”

“Katherine Argent,” Derek interrupts her. “Kate. She’s the CEO of Arrowhead Insurance.”

“Your old company?” Lydia asks.

“Yes. She was my boss. She held the policy on my family’s house—and all of their other extensive assets. My mother was the most prominent person in our hometown, and her combined business assets totaled over half a million dollars, all of which was insured by Arrowhead. The car insurance, health insurance, every policy held by all ten of the victims was held by arrowhead. Including life insurance.”

“So why would Kate burn the house?” Scott asks. “I mean, she’d have to pay out all that life insurance. The house. Everything damaged or destroyed. From what you’re saying, that’s a lot of money.”

Derek breathes deeply. The worst part. “At the time of the fire, Kate and I had been dating for three years. I had a ring in my back pocket. I—well. That’s not the point. The point is, I encouraged my mother, and the rest of my family, to file with Arrowhead, both because of my status within the company and because of my personal relationship with Kate. A month before the fire, I discovered extensive fraud while going through the company accounts. Kate had been bribing investigators to accuse clients of insurance fraud to avoid paying out, writing in reports that people had staged accidents or inflated the value of their policies. Every trick in the book. She was careful—she did it infrequently enough that no outsider would have noticed. I only did because I noticed trends over five years of bookkeeping. Regardless, I called my mother and advised her to choose a different insurance company immediately. I filed my resignation, as well. The trip to Paris was my last with the company—an emergency trip. Tying up some loose ends.”

“So that’s it?” Allison asks, “She knew that you told your family to move their policies and you think she went after ten people for that? You think she took it that personally?”

“Arrowhead is a local business,” Derek explains, “It’s powerful within the region, but comparatively small. Between her businesses and personal accounts, not to mention her art collection, my mother’s policies made up probably a third of the monetary claims that Arrowhead had filed.”

Scott whistles. “That redefines prominent,” Lydia whispers.

“I don’t buy it,” Allison says bluntly.

“I dated Kate for three years. Lived with her for the last. I know her. She values the company—and her position at it—above everything. Arrowhead Insurance is actually one of many subsidiary companies run by her father, Gerard. He’s grooming her to be CEO of the main business—Argent Arms—when he retires in a few months. The position at Arrowhead was a chance to prove herself. If my mother walked out the door and took all of her policies with her, that’s bad for business. Other customers hear, they lose faith. The company could have gone under in a year, less if the fraud came to light.”

“But paying out that many claims at once,” Lydia says slowly, “That would have cost her, too. Probably millions of dollars in payouts.”

Derek laughs. “Her masterstroke,” he says bitterly. “Kate—or her henchmen, maybe—set the fire from inside the house, but the doors were dead bolted shut. The only keys belonging to those outside the house belonged to me and my older sister. I was in Paris, Laura lives in New York.”

“She had yours?” Lydia guesses, “You said you lived together. Why would you take your California house key to Paris with you?”

“That’s my guess. It’s easy enough to pick a lock, but who can lock one from the outside with no key?”

“If I had tape and ten seconds,” Allison starts, but then shrugs, “Normal people probably couldn’t.”

“So the investigator found evidence of arson but no probable way that the fire could have been set by somebody outside of the home.”

“The story was attempted insurance fraud gone wrong,” Derek says, and crosses his arms, “Someone had tried to set a small fire, enough to receive payout for repairs and a little extra, but the blaze got out of hand. Apparently the fact that no sane person would attempt such a thing with children in the house—or at all—never crossed the investigator’s mind. The finger was pointed at my mother. She’d had a rough quarter and they said she’d be after the money. The house policy was voided by the fraud, and her life insurance because she’d recently refiled for a higher amount, and the contract included a two year suicide clause. The policies that Kate did have to pay out—my father’s and the rest of my family—were paltry. She saved face and her company, and my family paid the price.”

The room is silent for a moment. Lydia sips her tea.

“Okay,” Allison says, “So she’s a monster. She hurts people. But I don’t understand what I’m here for, because I _don’t_ hurt people, and I never will. The people I take from are rich enough that they barely notice.”

“The most harm I’ve ever done is breaking a nail on my keyboard,” Lydia agrees with an air of feigned innocence.

“Well,” Scott says uncomfortably, still posted in the doorway, “I do hurt people. But not kids. And not innocent people. This lady crossed the line. I’m in.”

“I’ll bite,” Lydia sighs. “I could use a change of pace. And Peter off my back.”

Allison sighs, heavily. “Fine,” she snaps. “But this is a one time only deal.”

“No encores,” Scott agrees.

Derek smiles, for the first time in a long time. “I know those headquarters like my own home,” he says. “You three get into that building and bring me her records? I take her down for insurance fraud, and, if she’s as arrogant as I think she is, maybe arson and murder as well. We all go home happy.”

Scott pulls up a chair. “Let’s get started.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much borrowed from Leverage 1.01 "The Nigerian Job," because I am clueless about committing crimes. Is it realistic? Idk. 
> 
> Mild ableism for discussion/portrayal of a burn victim as part of the con.

“Remember,” Derek says into their ears, “On my instructions. I know you all are used to working alone, but if you get caught, it’s game over. I waited long enough that she shouldn’t be suspicious anymore—I don’t want her to know that anything’s wrong until the feds are slapping handcuffs on her wrist. There’s a standing guard in the lobby, so we’re going in through an alley facing window on an abandoned floor. All the records are kept on an encrypted hard drive, in a locked room. Now, once Allison gets you into the building, all Lydia needs to do is—”

“I know,” Lydia says, and he can practically hear her eyeroll. “We’ve been over this several _hundred_ times. Copy the data to a USB drive, and worry about the encryption back at headquarters.”

“The last time I wore this rig was Rome, 2013,” Allison says happily, cutting her off.

“Are you talking about the Caravaggio?” Derek barks, “Did you steal that?”

“Are you sure this earbud thing is safe?” Scott’s voice cuts in.

“Please, I designed it myself,” Lydia scoffs, “It’s powered by the vibrations in your jaw. I could hear you whispering from five miles away. Just let me know if you feel faint, or dizzy, or feel shooting pains up and down your left arm. That’s the only bug I haven’t worked out.”

“Great,” Scott growls. “So nothing important, then.”

“I’m sorry, what is it that you do?” Lydia returns.

“Can we focus, please?” Derek snaps, “On my count, Allison, no sooner. Five, four—”

“She’s gone,” Lydia remarks dryly. Through his binoculars, standing in a room across the alley, Derek can see a dark shape in what appears to be a freefall—until Allison’s rig brings her up short, hovering in front of a dark plate glass window.

He can’t see her lips move from this distance in the dark, but her voice in his ear is crystal clear. “The vibration detectors are on,” she says.

“Okay, no cutting, then,” he says. “Use the binary instead.”

Allison reaches into her black fanny pack, and pulls out a bottle. The luminescence of the foam inside is visible even to Derek as it quickly and silently cuts a hole in the glass and lets the center drop twenty stories to the dirty pavement below.

“I’m in,” Allison says, and disappears into the dark building.

“Good,” Derek answers. He swings his binoculars up—the roof is empty. “Lydia and Scott are in through the elevator maintenance shaft. Bring the elevator to the floor below you like I showed you, in the electricity room. If you press the buttons, the guards will see that the elevators are moving, but if you use the electrical wires instead…”

“They won’t see a thing,” Allison finishes. In her voice, he can hear her smirk. “They’re on their way,” she finishes.

“Doors are opening,” she says, after a moment.

“Good. Stay there, Allison. Tap into their security feed like Lydia showed you.”

“We’re here,” Lydia says crisply.

“Here,” Scott says gruffly, and Derek imagines him handing Lydia the gadget she had proudly shown off earlier when he had explained the door lock system.

“Working on the lock now,” Lydia says. “Ten digit code? I must admit, I am impressed.”

“Any chatter on their frequencies?” Derek asks.

“No,” Allison answers. “Why?”

Derek glances at the images he has projected on the wall around him. “Eight guards listed on the duty roster,” he says, and checks the video Allison patched him through to as she was waiting for the elevator to bring Scott and Lydia down. “Only four at their post.”

“There’s… I mean, I can’t even tell how many guards there are in the room, how can you possible tell who’s who?”

“Haircuts, Allison. Count the haircuts.”

Allison swallows. “I would have missed that,” she mutters.

Despite himself, Derek smiles. “What was that?” he teases.

“Nothing.”

“Is there going to be a problem here?” Scott cuts in.

“Uh… maybe,” Derek acknowledges. “Run the cameras.”

“Okay, I can see them,” Allison says, and then her voice takes on an edge of panic. “They’re doing their walkthrough an hour early! Why would they…”

“It’s the playoffs,” Derek sighs. “They’re doing their walkthrough an hour early so they don’t miss the playoffs.”

“They’re at the stairwell!” Allison says.

“You mean the one three feet from where Lydia’s hacking into a secure room?” Scott comes back, “I’m guessing that this is the problem?”

“We’ve got to squelch it before they can call it in upstairs,” Derek interrupts. “Okay, Allison, do what Lydia showed you earlier. The guards at the post get audio feedback, they’ll shut off the radios. Scott, clear the zone, use Lydia as bait.”

“Use Lydia as what?” She barks.

“Lydia, they’re almost there,” Allison warns.

“Come on, come on,” Lydia chants softly, and then, through what must be her ear bud, Derek can faintly hear a man’s voice: “Stop right there!”

“Scott.” Lydia says, voice strong.

“What?” The man’s voice says again, and then there’s silence.

And then Scott: “ _That’s_ what I do.”

“Okay,” Lydia says, finally allowing her voice to shake. “That’s… good to know.”

“Are they out?” Derek asks, “Talk to me.”

“Yeah, four guards in about five seconds,” Lydia answers. “They’re definitely out. And that’s the lock. We’re in.”

“We just knocked four guards out? I thought this was supposed to be subtle,” Allison remarks.

“Already taken care of,” Lydia says. “I make it a point to always carry a mild roofie with me, side effects include memory loss. I’ve already injected them. They’ll wake up and won’t remember a thing—except that the apparently fell asleep on the job. And who would admit to that?”

“Okay,” she finishes, “Inserting drive, transferring files, and… done!”

“Lock up behind you,” Derek says.

“Problem!” Allison intervenes. “The guards reset the alarms on all the floors above them and on the room before Scott took them out. We can’t go up.”

“Every man for himself,” Scott says after a beat.

“Sure,” Lydia says, “But I’m the one with the drive!”

“I’m the one with an exit!” Allison intervenes.

“And I’m the one with a plan.” Derek interrupts. “Here’s what we do. Gather your things, get to the elevator, head down. We’re running with the burn scam.”

“Going to Plan B,” Scott mutters, and Derek hears the ‘ding’ of the elevator button.

“That would technically be Plan G,” Derek remarks. “Lydia died in Plan B.” He snaps the laptop screen shut and pulls out his car keys.

“I like Plan B,” Allison giggles, and then there’s a whoosh of fabric as she trades her skintight black outfit for a frumpier office ensemble.

“You still have the leg brace?” Derek asks.

“Yeah, and the fake burned skin,” Lydia answers, “Which is frankly disgusting and I can’t believe you made me carry it around all night.”

“Ground floor, here we go,” Scott says.

“Hey, everybody was supposed to have gone home hours ago!” A guard calls.

“Nice,” Scott snaps, “Why don’t you stare a little more, huh?”

“Oh, I’m… sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Allison says, voice tearful, “I understand.”

“No it is not okay,” Lydia says harshly.

“You’re just going to stand there?” Scott says, “Come on, man, get the door!”

“Thank you,” Allison says.

When Derek pulls the car around, Allison is hobbling away from the building on crutches, propped up by Scott and Lydia on either side.

“Hi,” she says cheerfully when she climbs in the passenger seat, and reaches up to peel the burned-looking side of her face away.

“Got it?” Derek asks, and hits the accelerator.

Lydia leans forward and grins. “Got it,” she says.


	4. Chapter 4

“What do you mean, there’s no evidence?” Derek snaps.

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t yell at me, seeing as it’s _not my fault_ ,” Lydia snaps back, and then breathes deeply and says, “Like I _just said,_ it’s not here. The earliest file is dated October 2, three weeks after the fire, and is an interoffice memo that their server was hacked and they lost all the files, that they were ‘deeply regretful about this unfortunate circumstance and were taking steps to prevent such problems in the future.”

Derek curses.

Scott shakes his head where he’s leaning against the wall, and Allison scoffs. “So that was all for nothing?” She asks.

“There’s no way that they were hacked,” Lydia announces. “That building had better security than some _banks._ You all saw how hard it was to get this copy of their information. I couldn’t have done it alone, and if I couldn’t have, nobody else could have, either.”

“She wiped it,” Derek says firmly, “I should have seen this coming. I knew about the fraud and she knew it; she was worried I would go to the authorities about it, especially after what she did to me, and she made sure the incriminating files disappeared. They wouldn’t have announced this so called ‘hack’ to the public for fear that the stock price would drop or that clients would move their accounts to a company that hadn’t been compromised.”

They’re all silent for a moment.

“So now what?” Scott asks. “I mean, this is even worse than before, right? Now we can’t even get her for what she _did_ do.”

Derek restrains himself from punching through Lydia’s plate glass room divider. Barely.

“Okay, so we can’t take this from her,” Derek says, slowly, mind churning away. He needs a drink. “That doesn’t mean we can’t get her to give it to us. All of it; the company, her position, even a confession.”

Allison actually laughs. “Are you kidding?” She asks incredulously, “You think that a woman who was desperate enough not to lose her company that she _burned a family alive_ is going to resign and hand us a signed confession to murder? There’s no way.”

“No,” Derek says, “You’re right. There’s no way that we could get her to do this.”

“I’m sorry,” Allison says, almost gently. “But I know her. Or, I mean, I know people like her.” She flushes.

“No way that _we_ could get her to do this,” Derek says again. “Because we’re not grifters. We’re… we’re good at what we do, we’re the best at what we do. But we don’t con. So we need someone who does. We need someone who’s the best at what _they_ do.”

Lydia eyes him warily. “And you’re just going to pull some random con man off the street?” She asks.

“No. I have just the man for the job.”

…

“To be,” the man on stage says, with a dramatic flourish to the left, and finishes with an equally dramatic flourish to the right, bowing his head and raising his voice to bellow, “Or _not_ to be!!”

He raises one finger. “ _That,_ ” he says significantly, “Is the question.”

Lydia stares at the stage, beautiful face marred with an expression of pure horror. Beside him, Derek can feel Allison shaking with silent laughter, while Scott covertly covers his ears on his other side.

“Are you kidding me?” Lydia hisses when the play is mercifully over and they’re waiting in the back alley, “This guy is _horrible_. He’s the worst actor I’ve _ever seen,_ Derek. He couldn’t convince someone to give him a cup of coffee, much less a company.”

“No, you’re right,” Derek acknowledges. “He’s shit on stage. But this isn’t really his area of expertise. I told you he was the best. I’ve got everything on the line here, okay? You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

The man steps into the alley from the backstage door, startles and turns when Derek claps for him slowly.

“That was quite the performance,” he says.

“Derek Hale?” The man questions, stepping forward into the light.

He’d worn a fake beard for the play; Derek can see where the glue still clings to his sharp jawline. He regards Derek coolly for a moment, and then smiles as if in spite of himself.

“Wow,” the man continues, “I haven’t seen you since…”

“Paris,” Derek finishes softly. Behind him, he hears Lydia clear her throat with a ladylike cough.

“This is Stiles,” Derek announces to his team, and turns back to Stiles and says, “Lydia Martin, Allison de Plata, Scott McCall.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “And here I thought you were one of the good guys,” he says, smirking, “And you’ve been running around with thieves.”

“Well, they’re helping me with something,” Derek says. “And that’s why we’re here, coincidentally.”

Stiles chuckles. “I never thought I’d see the day when Derek Hale admitted he needed me,” he muses.

He can almost feel the curious looks of the others.

“I do,” he acknowledges. “I need a grifter, Stiles. I need… you.”

Stiles grins. “Well, then,” he says, and adjusts his bag on his shoulder. “Let’s go get this mark.”

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr,](http://iddayidnight.tumblr.com/) if that's your thing.


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